Finding My Passion

Yesterday I sat on a park bench on a beautiful beach in Cape May, New Jersey engaged in a phone therapy session with my meditation teacher.  I often seek her guidance when I cannot wade through my own personal mind fields.  She is always extremely helpful, and that morning was no exception. I am still reeling from my previous relationship, not sure how I am going to finally move on or continue to hope for something more.  Everything was going extremely well until she asked me what I am passionate about.

“Wait, what?”  The question threw me.  I was silent after she explained that I should dig deep and find the things that light me up and help me to feel happy and fulfilled.  My only answer burped to the surface of my mind: romantic relationships.  I instantly felt ashamed as I described that the push and pull of men and relationships have been my main focus outside of my two children, my job, and my own health.

“You need to go deeper during your meditations,” she said.  “You enjoy writing.  Is that a passion for you?”

“Yes,” I answered excitedly.  “Yes, I do love writing.”

“How often do you write?”  She asked.

“I have just started making myself write fifteen minutes a day.  I read somewhere if you do something that way for forty days you can make it a habit,” I answered proudly.  She laughed.

“That’s not very much time to develop your craft, Kelly,” she responded.  “If I only painted for fifteen minutes a day I would never accomplish anything.  Perhaps you are not passionate about writing.  So would you say you spent more time obsessing over your previous relationship than you’ve spent thinking about writing?”

So now, hours later, I am contemplating my passions.  I have sat in silence this morning and each time my mind wanders back to relationships and love.  Could I be passionate about finding out about love?  I do love to write despite the fact that I am only doing it for a few minutes a day.  I love reading and learning about the stories of people around me.  I also love cooking and traveling, but all of these passions take time and energy and as a full-time working, single mom who really just wants a beautiful, loving, partnership where does one find the time?

In addition to finding my passions, she also put my in charge of individuating myself and finding my soul path.  She insisted that true contentment can only exist in me and it cannot be found in others.  It is a message that has been repeated time and time again.  I don’t know why it is so hard to hear.  It seems too easy and too hard all at the same time.

If all journeys begin with a first step, I guess I am making mine.  I will work on staying present because true power is only in this moment.  I am asking the Divine to show me the way to my soul path because I think I am a bit out of alignment.  I am going to find joy in this minute instead of chewing on past decisions and plausible future scenarios.  This is a start.

 

Abuse and the Empath

When I was child, I was abused by my father. When I did anything wrong, I was beaten with either a hand or belt. I was most scared of the thinner belts.  They hurt the most.  My father has a “funny” story that he used to tell when we would be sitting around the dinner table.  It went something like this…

I was four or five and I had wandered around the block.  This was wrong. I was not allowed to go past the house with the big white pillars and the small porch.  This was a rule, but I had broken it.  Perhaps I was chasing a butterfly, maybe I just wanted to openly defy the rule. I don’t remember why I broke this rule; I just remember that I did.  As a cycled back around the corner, I saw my father’s angry eyes.  His mouth was twisted and I knew that he was furious.  I knew that I was caught.

“Don’t beat me, Daddy,” I cried as I put my hands across my behind to try and save myself from a subsequent beating.  My father’s face changed as he glanced at the few neighbors who were watering their gardens are putting out their potted plants.  He smiled and bent to the ground, supporting himself on one knee.

“It’s ok, baby,” he said soothingly.  “I am not going to hurt you.” I smiled and ran into his arms.  He hugged me as he carried me into the house.  I buried my tear-stained face into his neck and sighed.  I did not notice that we were walking back towards the house.

And this is the part my father always thought was most amusing, the part that he would chuckle while saying,

“So here she thinks she got me,” he would continue.  “She thought she could manipulate me and embarrass me in front of the neighbors, but I showed her.  When I got her inside, I spanked her so hard she didn’t even know what hit her, and I made sure she really knew I was serious because I really laid into her.  She never did that again.”

And I didn’t do that again…throughout my life, I don’t think I ever did that again.  How terribly did that scar me?

I find it difficult to trust men.

I believe all men lie to me or are going to hurt me if I give them an ounce of trust.

I fear men and the things they are capable of doing to me.

How does a person have an intimate relationship with a person of the opposite gender when this is just one “story” in a vast sea of abuse?

How long will it take me to walk away from these stories to find myself in the rubble of a broken childhood, a broken marriage, a broken life?

I know that dwelling on this past and sitting in these stories detract me from the present moment and feed my victim story, so I am trying to relinquish them to a time that is no longer here, but I do feel a sense of loss when I think about letting this story go.  I do feel like this story shaped me, but at the same time I also feel like it is keeping me small.  It is keeping me from freedom.

I am not that five year old girl holding her butt in front of her angry father.  There are no large men lurking in the distance waiting to beat me for my wrongdoings, but I still act as if I am.

How do I let go?  By writing it here in this sacred space?  Maybe by telling the truth about my past, I can let each story go with a touch of the “publish” button, shedding each layer of skin one story at a time.

And perhaps I need to be reminded of the following:

“You have to be larger than thought to realize that however you interpret “your life” or someone else’s life or behavior, however you judge any situation, it is no more than a viewpoint, one of many total perspectives.” – Eckhart Tolle

Fear and the Empath

 

I have been thinking about fear a lot lately.  I am in the midst of this romantic relationship with a guy I really like and it has caused me to have a certain level of anxiety.  Where is this going?  Does he like me as much as I like him?  Did a delay in his text message mean that he is no longer into me?  I am trying to work through it.

So today the boys and I are getting ready to go to the beach.  We are in the car, seat belts fastened.  Jonah, my five-year-old, starts screaming.

“What?  What?” I yell back.  He is screaming so much and so loudly I can only assume he is being murdered.

“A bug!  A bug on my whistle!”  He cries.  I bend into the car to see.  My other son Cole points.

“There, Mommy.” He screams, too.  “It’s right on your arm!”  I look down and see a large brown bug, and I start to scream too.  I am not screaming because I am in any real danger.  I am screaming because they are screaming and I am pretty sure one of them was screaming about it being a spider.

“Ok, everyone out of the car!” I yell as I dance around, shaking my arms and legs and dragging Jonah out of his car seat.  He is still screaming and crying and as soon as his feet hit the ground, he is running far away from the car.  Cole is a bit braver and he is trying to help me locate it so he can kill it.  He has already removed his flip flop and is poised to smack it to death.

“Ok, Mom.  Get back.  I will look for it,” he says.  My brave protector.

I back up from the door and I see it.  A large brown moth is clinging to the side of the door.

“Oh,” I said softly.  “It’s just a moth.”

“A moth?” Cole says as he leans in.  “Where?”  I point to the side of the door and I scoop the moth up with one hand and push it outside.  It flies away.

“Jonah,” I yell.  “It’s ok. It’s just a moth.  You can come down now.”  Jonah shows up a few minutes later with his blanket clutched in his hands and his eyes red and teary.

“What was it, Mommy?  A spider?”

“No, baby, it was just a moth.”  This information does not seem to make him feel any better.

“Did you kill it?”  He asked pushing his hand against his mouth.

“No, we didn’t kill it.  It was more afraid of us than we are of him.”  He didn’t seem to agree, but he climbed into the car anyway and let me put his seat belt on.

“How do you know, Mommy?”

“How do I know what, Jonah?”

“If the moth was more afraid of us…I was pretty afraid.”

I wanted to tell him that we don’t really know.  Maybe it’s just something we tell ourselves so that we won’t be as afraid the next time.  Perhaps it’s easier to digest than the possibility that the moth really didn’t give a shit either way and we were running around and screaming like a serial killer had just entered our midst.  The idea that our feeling of safety was so disrupted by a small bug landing on our laps is more laughable than anything. It makes me realize that much of the fear I have felt over the last few months is being created by something that is tiny and more afraid of me than I am of it. Perhaps it is faith in the idea that my fear is predicated on what I imagine it is as opposed to what it really is.  And maybe this is what is causing the problem.

I can only assume he won’t be able to understand much of this, so I just smile at him and say that big moth had a look of terror on his face like he wouldn’t believe as I scooted it out of the car.  Cole gave me a face that said, “Mom” as a way of showing me that he knows I am total bullshit, but Jonah just nods.

And the danger is averted.  Once again peace is restored and our fear subsides.  If only it could always be this easy…

 

Losing It

A strand of thin brown hair falls into the crease of my elbow

I brush it away

Another lands softly on the table and sticks

 

Sign of stress

Sign of aging

 

My hair is everywhere, my friend says. But her locks are thick and long

and mine are sparse

 

Just relax, I tell myself as I seek to do everything…perfectly…to prove

No jello streaks on the kitchen floor

Blanket straight on the back of the chair

Vacuum in the single closet

prove, move, fix

 

Little boys happy

Toys stashed in proper places

 

A long strand ends up in my mouth

The average person loses 125 strands of hair a day

 

46 47 48

 

Trichotillomania- the obsessive habit of pulling out your own hair

 

Another strand falls and I have to believe that is is number 126

So beyond the legal limit

 

I fall to the floor with it

My fingers searching to clean it up before anyone sees

my imperfection in brown

on a white tiled floor

curled slightly at the end

twisting up towards the ceiling

 

I pinch it between my two fingers

carry it over to the sink

and wash it down the drain

The Middle of Summer

I stopped writing.  It has been a long time.  I feel rusty.  I feel as if I have just emerged from a very long and tumultuous slumber: the tin man stretching his fingers, pierced lips begging for an oil can.

My reasons for writing are so selfish.  I just need to express my emotions, my turmoil as I try and work my way through my romantic relationships.  How does an Empath love?  When she can feel the undercurrents of doubt in another?  Women, in general, over-analyze.  “Stop over-thinking,” my girlfriends say as I lament my latest sorrows.  How do I separate an active mind from the passions and fears of my heart?  How does one become vulnerable to love when it has already come with so much pain in the past?  It feels impossible.

I feel the fleetingness of love.  And then there is the deep, burrowing love that I feel in people when they speak of their children.  It twists and turns far into their being.  It feels imprinted on the soul.  Is is wrong to want this in my partner?  Is this type of love built over time or is it realized across a crowded room when two eyes meet?

I currently like a man.  I am not in love with him.  He feels afraid to feel anything for me.  He has been hurt in the past.  His first layer is so thick.  Beneath that layer is sadness.  A flowing river of sadness.  Every time I pierce that first layer, he retreats.  He isolates himself.  When he does this retreat, I know what it is.  It makes me sad.  I feel rejected.  Part of me wants to give up.  Take the advice of others and see other other men.  Keep my options open.  Part of me wants to stay and work through this with him and hope for the best. Both cause fear and consternation.  I am not sure what to do…

 

A Romantic Entanglement and the Empath

The one really frustrating part of this gift is that I can tell if a person is cheating on her spouse just because she happens to be standing in front of me at the Dunkin Donuts, but I cannot tell if someone I am interested in is interested in me.  To be fair, I don’t think it’s the ability that holds me back, I think it’s my ego.

I have a crush, which is annoying because I am not sure what this significant crush is thinking. Again, I can see a video of a perfect stranger screaming at his son in my head, but I cannot for certain know if one of my guy friends thinks I am attractive. The other frustrating part of this is that I used to really dislike this man.  For the sake of time, I will begin our story and continue it tomorrow.

Here’s how it started…picture it.  A high school library filled with students three years ago…

I sat at a table near the main computer lab situated in the center of the library.  The room was packed with students.  Thirty of my Honors students swarmed around my table and the adjoining areas.  They were working on their research papers, and in true Honors style, they had so many questions.  I was answering some and reprimanding others when I heard a booming male voice, “Women’s rights?”  He yelled.  He waved a paper in the face of a young girl who looked to be in ninth grade.  Her eyes were wide with horror.  She stayed silent but backed away.  “Why would you want to do your paper on women’s rights.” He shook his head and threw the paper on the table in front of him.  “Either way it must be more specific.  Go and pick a better topic than that please.” I stared, incredulous.  When he looked up, our eyes met and I waved my hand.

“Really?” I mouthed, hoping my eyes and gesture conveyed my disgust.  He smiled and shrugged,  Disgusted, I looked away. I was shocked, not only by his blatant disrespect for the topic of women’s rights, but that he would staunchly yell about it across the library as if it were ok.  In addition, the look on the girl’s face stayed with me, even later that day when I was at the lunch table with other people from department.

“I don’t know who it was, but I can’t believe he would say that.  It’s the 21st century and it’s a public school. I know he’s a Social Studies teacher, but I have no idea who.”  My friend Sally walked from behind the wall that separated the two sections of the lunch room. “I know who it is,” she answered.

“Who?” I asked.

“It’s Brewster.  He’s always making sexist comments like that.”

“I don’t know,” I answered.  “What’s that guy look like?”

“Cute,” she answered.  “Brown hair, kind of built.”  I nodded.  For all of my irritation while I was in the library, I could tell he was cute.  His arrogant smiling face showed a guy who was used to getting away with things because of his looks.

“Yep, it sounds like him,” she said.  “I am so sick of his shit. My kids tell me the male chauvinistic shit he spouts off in class all of the time.  Someone should really talk to him.  He needs to know that the stuff he’s saying is not ok.  I was at an in-service workshop with him once, and we were working on an exercise where we had difficult and stressful situations.  We had to explain how we would work through money issues with a spouse who was upset that we were working long hours.”

“Oh, yeah,” one of my male colleagues said.  “That was so weird.”

“He said,” she continued, ” I would tell her to shut up and just enjoy m my big fat check.”  There was a hushed silence followed by various comments.  I shook my head.

“Such a dick,” I said. “And so smug, standing there smiling.”  I have never liked arrogant men like this, regardless of what they look like.  Looks have never been something I’ve focused on.

“That’s it,” my friend said suddenly, slamming her hand on the table.  “I’m going to talk to him.”

“What?” I croaked, choking slightly.

“Yeah, I am going to set this guy straight once and for all.” She stood up.  My fried Sally has always been a powerful ally.  An ex softball player, she was always dealing sexist stuff on the field and off.  Her solid, athletic body was poised for a fight.  “Wanna go?”

“No,” I answered as my heart raced.  “I feel like I’ve said enough.”  My heart fell into my stomach.  So many doubts, so many misgivings.  What if this guy wasn’t even Brewster?  And what is he going to think if he is?

Sally gave me no time to plea for some kind of reprieve.  She threw her lunch in the trash and angrily marched down to the Social Studies office.

To be continued…

The Empath and Her New Love Interest

Yes, I have a new love interest.  It’s been a passionate and whirlwind romance.  It really just started recently when I finally moved out of my ex’s house.  Amid my stuffed boxes and half packed bags, I found someone I never thought I’d meet.  My divorce was so difficult.  It stripped away parts of me that I didn’t even know existed.  How is this much pain and happiness possible at the same time? I knew my divorce was the right thing, but I did not know that I would feel free, guilty, satisfied, fear.

My new love interest has done wonders for me, though.  It has been transforming.  I will no longer keep you in suspense…it’s me.  Yes, anti-climatic and perhaps I bit predictable, I know, but it is also very true.  For so many years, I have looked for distractions, things to keep me away from me.  I didn’t want to face my own internal issues.  I didn’t want to see myself. People would ask me what I wanted, and I didn’t even know what that meant.  I was so far from myself. Somewhere along the way, I was taught that I needed validation from others.  I picked up this nasty habit of only seeing myself through the eyes of others.  I became obsessed with what others thought about me, believing that I was only worthy if someone else liked me.  Even worse, I could only understand love from a man if it included sex.  Desire is such a powerful emotion, and I believed that love from a man could not be real without it.  Unfortunately, I started to convince myself it was the only thing.

This summer I plan on continuing this new love affair.  So far I realized that I am a pretty cool person to be with.  I realized that I have more interests than I ever realized before.  Why didn’t it take me so long to realize that I am this awesome?